


Jersey Swap

by shiny_glor_chan



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Football | Soccer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiny_glor_chan/pseuds/shiny_glor_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Federalist's A. Hamilton and SMDR's T. Jefferson's rivalry gets a bit out of hand...and what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jersey Swap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lafbaeyette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/gifts).



> Look, I blame Copa America being so hype with these rivalries and hot heads and help me through the rest of this month, man. Still blame Pip. Especially for the ship. Jeeeez.
> 
> EDIT: Changed A.Ham's number from 11 to 19 because of the sportsball ham4ham show last week. Lin's A.Ham jersey said 19 so.

It's the eighty-second minute, and the goal score is still 0-0. Hamilton can see his team flagging, even Mulligan in net. Lafayette has a throw in deep on their own side of the field, and he knows it's getting thrown to someone else. He's decided to give some of the fresh legs the chance with the ball, so Hamilton can keep Jefferson's eyes on him.

It's risky, because he knows Jefferson isn't stupid, as much as he hates the SMDR's team captain, but a tie at this point also keeps them in an okay spot in the series standings to climb up to the top. However, he knows a win here would be detrimental to Jefferson's almost unopposed season so far. 

When Lafayette tosses the ball in, Hamilton makes a move towards it, and Jefferson takes the bait, staying on Hamilton. Though, it doesn't last long since Jefferson has more than a head of height over him, so there's not much of his view he can block.

John Jay has the ball now, and Hamilton knows that Jefferson can smell a weakness a mile away. They should have subbed Jay out a while back, but they used their last sub to take Laurens out on an injury. Hamilton sprints to get to where Jay can pass to him. Jefferson almost intercepts it, but once the ball gets to his feet, Hamilton books it towards goal.

They've moved into stoppage time, only a minute left, and Hamilton can see Jefferson hot on his tail. Aaron Burr's in the net for the SMDRs, already preparing for Hamilton's strike. At the last minute, Hamilton finds Lafayette in just the right place and passes instead of taking the shot himself. Jefferson doesn't expect it and goes in for the tackle, hard.

Both go down, but the ref doesn't whistle. The stadium fills with shouts and cheers while Hamilton scowls at Jefferson, who at least brought down with him with that tackle. He glances away then grins when he sees that Lafayette made the goal, since Burr had been so sure Hamilton would take the shot.

Jefferson shoots up from the ground. “That doesn't count!” he shouts.

“Bullshit!” Hamilton shoots back as he shoves Jefferson off him to join his team flocking around Lafayette, who has already ditched his green Federalists jersey. “You tackled me after the ball got passed. I would've gotten a penalty anyway.”

“My god, shut up,” Jefferson says with a growl as the ref comes over to break them up.

Referee Washington tells them the goal counts, and that it was the last play of the match. That they're both lucky he didn't card them both for their nonsense. Jefferson looks like he might protest while Hamilton bites his tongue before his team pulls him into their group victory dance.

From that game on, the Federalists climb to a good lead in second place, their only competition, the few points lead SMDR has over them. It's been months since the last time their teams faced off, but the tension from the how the last game ended is still there. Somehow, Washington is the referee again. His teammates joke that no other ref can handle the combined fouls and downright meanness that Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson bring to a field they have play on against each other.

They face each other, waiting for kick off. “Last time was a fluke, Hamilton,” Jefferson says without bothering with formalities. “You won't be winning this series.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “That's only if you can win this game, and you didn't win the last time,” he taunts, but before they continue, Washington has signaled the beginning of the game, and Laurens pass to him.

Immediately, Jefferson fights to take possession, with Madison backing him up. The game becomes a constant back and forth, with some rough tackles and slides that Hamilton and Laurens fight Washington on. They win some and lose some, which gets Jefferson and Madison up in arms against Washington's calls too. They're almost to half time, Hamilton, Laurens, and Jefferson all have yellow cards and close call fouls between them.

At halftime, Washington warns them this won't stand in the next half. Hamilton gives his team a pep talk, halfheartedly telling Laurens that he'll need to back off on his fouling, or they'll have to sub Jay in. Laurens scowls and agrees unhappily, though he does mutter that Hamilton needs to do the same.

It's true, but Hamilton doesn't take his own advice, and five minutes into the second half, he's pretty much in an all out brawl with Jefferson. Hamilton has a good chance on goal, but Jefferson dashes it, hard. They both end up on the ground after the tussle. Hamilton curses but then grins while Jefferson scowls. They've landed in the box, and they both know that means a probable card for Jefferon and a penalty kick for the Federalists.

“Bastard,” Jefferson curses, and Hamilton knows that it's on purpose, but he sees red.

It's a blur, but he punches Jefferson who hits back, and their teams have to separate them. “Enough! Red cards, both of you!” Washington shouts, raising up the card in the air. “Federalists, you still get the penalty kick, but Hamilton needs to get off the field first.”

The fight drains out of both of them as they're escorted from the field, only one pause to hand off their captain's armbands to their teammates.

* * *

When Hamilton's alone in the locker room, waiting for the game to end and the disappointed looks his fellow teammates will give him, he doesn't notice he's not alone. “You are so goddamned ridiculous,” Jefferson says he shuts the locker room door behind him.

Hamilton scowls and spins on his heel to face Jefferson. “Me? You're the asshole who tackled me in the box! I don't even know if we made that penalty!”

“You punched me!” Jefferson replies hotly, stalking forward towards Hamilton. “If you hadn't started brawling like a schoolboy, I would've gotten a yellow, and you could have gone to miss your penalty shot.”

“I would have made that shot!” Hamilton shouts in response, giving Jefferson a shove when he gets to close.

Jefferson steps into Hamilton's space again. “You would have choked, like you always do with Burr. You would have thrown it away like you did at the Champions' League last-”

Hamilton has had enough, and his only thought is to shut Jefferson the hell up. Unfortunately, as with most of his flying by the seat of his pants plans outside of a game, his first idea his to shut him up with his mouth. It's more like punching him again, but with his mouth. Jefferson seems just as surprised as he does when it happens.

One more thing Hamilton didn't think about when he initiated this kiss is that Jefferson would kiss back. It's brutal, like their matches and nothing like them all at once. Not one to lose in anything, Hamilton deepens the kiss. In response, Jefferson slides his hands to grab Hamilton's ass. The whole thing becomes a series of retaliations, and Hamilton soon has his hand yanking Jefferson's shorts down in a tangle with his jock.

“This is how you shut up people, Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, breaking the kiss for air and at the shock of air against his ass.

“Don't see you complaining, Jefferson,” Hamilton bites back, gripping Jefferson's hips to bring them flush against his. “Something down there _definitely_ that's interested.”

Instead of replying, Jefferson smashes their mouths back together as he pulls down Hamilton's shorts and jock roughly. Hamilton bucks his hips once the material's out of the way, feeling the hard length against his own. He reaches a hand down between them to grasp them both as he bites Jefferson's bottom lip to be an asshole.

“I bet you'll come first,” Hamilton says against Jefferson's lips with toothy grin.

Jefferson sneers at him. “Don't bet money you don't have.”

Initiating another brutal kiss, Jefferson's hand joins Hamilton's to help jerk them both off in tandem. The motions are rough and almost uncoordinated between them, but neither man seems to care overmuch other than trying to get the other man to come first. 

Hamilton uses his free hand to fondle Jefferson's balls. It pulls a moan from Jefferson who breaks the kiss to pull down the collar of Hamilton's jersey to give an almost vicious bite to his shoulder, sucking and soothing with tongue soon after. Jerking his hips, Hamilton throws his head back, banging it against the lockers behind him.

When Jefferson chuckles against Hamilton's shoulder and the rather nice sized hickey he's made, Hamilton redoubles his hands movements. The pressure builds between them, harsh pants and low moans the only sounds in the locker room. In the end, they come one after the other, and neither really knows in that moment who came first, messily all over their jerseys.

“Fuck,” Jefferson curses, still resting his head against Hamilton's shoulder. “You fucked up my jersey.”

Hamilton weakly shoves Jefferson away. “It's called a washing machine, loser. I'm sure your team can afford a few extras.”

“Of course, but I can't leave wearing this,” Jefferson states as he grabs his jock and shorts. 

“Sucks to be you, huh,” Hamilton replies as he shucks his jersey, completely unashamed in his nudity at this point, and opens his locker to grab a change of clothes.

Before Jefferson can complain again, Hamilton tosses him a clean jersey. “I'm not wearing this, give me something else,” Jefferson says, crossing his arms almost petulantly as Hamilton pulls on a basic tee, boxers, and sweat shorts. “Give me the one you're wearing.”

Hamilton grins slowly. “No,” he says as he picks up the soiled jerseys, shoving them in the duffel bag inside his locker and locking it up soon after. “Just say we swapped jerseys, to bury the hatchet. Maybe someone will even believe it.”

“Hamilton-” Jefferson starts, but the locker room bursts open, Laurens charging in.

“Ham, we won!” he announces then double takes when he sees Jefferson standing in the middle of the locker room, wearing a Federalist number nineteen jersey with Hamilton's name on the back. “...did you two seriously swap jerseys? I can't believe it.”

Hamilton smiles, all teeth, as he slaps a hand on Jefferson's back. “We talked things out,” he says cheerfully, knowing Jefferson is only playing along because if Laurens is here, the whole rest of the team is soon to follow.

Laurens watches Jefferson carefully, who just nods in agreement. “Yeah, we talked,” he agrees, giving his own harder slap to Hamilton's back. “But I should be going. Need to give my team a pep talk, it seems.”

Jefferson steps away and walks towards the exit, ignoring Laurens' continued stares. Once Jefferson's gone, Laurens sets his sights on Hamilton. Smiling innocently, Hamilton raises his eyebrows in a question: yes? Laurens rolls his eyes, his way of saying never mind.

The rest of the Federalists rush in a moment later, and the victory revelries begin.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. I wonder what SMDR could stand for... No, I know what we know it means. I just dunno what it means in verse, outside Southern Motherfucking Democratic Republicans.


End file.
